


bad wisdom

by catharsis_coping



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Absolutely NO Danny/Tim at ANY point, Angst, Author is a CSA/incest survivor currently without access to therapy, But for others it's harmful which makes complete sense, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Consume responsibly etc etc, Dark, Do Not Archive, Exploring these topics is something that helps me, F/M, Father/Son Incest, Forced To Listen, Grooming, Healing, Homophobia, Hopeful Ending, Humiliation, If this is something that will trigger or otherwise upset you PLEASE scroll past, M/M, Manipulation, Mother/Son Incest, NO graphic/detailed depictions, Objectification, Parent/Child Incest, Possessiveness, Pre-Canon, Protective Siblings, Repressed Memories, Restraints, Sexual Abuse, Sibling Love, The very very beginning of it at least, Third Person POV, Trauma, Victim Blaming, and uses writing as a way to process/cope for the time being, hurt/some comfort, rape as punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27555586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catharsis_coping/pseuds/catharsis_coping
Summary: For Tim, it is for pain.For Danny, it is for love.They hurt just the same.
Relationships: Danny Stoker & Tim Stoker
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	bad wisdom

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the song Bad Wisdom by Suzanne Vega. Definitely worth the listen. 
> 
> Scenes are mostly chronological.

Tim is a rebellious son. 

He makes it clear that he is his own person and not a piece for his parents to shape as soon as he’s old enough to know spitting on their vision is possible. Argues, curses. Blasts his music as loud as it can go and turns it up more at every complaint. 

He does not do as he is told.

-=:=-

Danny is a good son.

He knows the price of rebellion. Unlike his brother, he knows what it costs before he’s gone too far down that road to turn back. There is still trouble. Bucked control. Pushback. He’s no less a developing boy despite his second-hand perspectives, but the times it shows are few and far between.

He does as he is told. 

-=:=-

Tim is difficult to punish.

Taking his things means he finds other ways to occupy his time. Going without dinner makes him irritable, but his fortitude holds him through. No friends, no going out, and he ensures his parents loathe his being stuck at home as much as he does.

Any strike puts him that much closer to the point of snapping — gone too far, and he _will_ someday strike back. It’s in his eyes. 

He requires creativity.

-=:=-

Danny is easy to reward.

A favorite son is no stranger to attention, no matter which family they come from. He thrives on it as much as the next. Ask the right questions, entertain the right ideas, embrace the right moments. Give him what he wants, until what he wants is the one holding it.

Tactility is a common expression of favor. To make rewards better than the norm, they must go above and beyond.

He requires ingenuity. 

-=:=-

Tim would not be his first choice.

His father is not perverse in the same way as his son. He has no desires for fellow men, and the fact that he somehow raised a son who does is a shame he can only stow away.

If Tim likes something, it becomes an avenue for potential discipline. Any other time, he would lose whatever thing he fancied until he was punished enough. 

His father cannot take that perversion away. Instead, he can give Tim exactly what he wants, in the way he wants it least. 

His father is not attracted to boys, but everyone looks near the same lying facedown on a bed. 

-=:=-

Danny will always be her first choice.

He is a boy and she is a woman, and in her mind, that accounts for this with ease. He is young, and hers, and she will not waste that. She is so, so proud of who she is forming him to be.

It will take time for him to realize how much he likes it. He’s confused, still. He doesn’t quite understand. She is patient. She will help him see in due course. 

She can give him exactly what he wants, whether he knows to want it yet or not. He will, and the _will_ is what matters. 

His mother loves her boy, and would never dream of hiding his face.

-=:=-

For Tim, it hurts. The hurt makes it easier.

There is pain. Humiliation. Hurricane fear and anger. He shakes and spits and snarls and, in the end, cries. They are hard-won tears. Proof, at least to himself, that he does not want this. 

His body’s reactions can only be rationalized so far, of course, and there are doubts. There will always be doubts. There will always be a piece that betrays him. 

Still, he is glad for the sharp ache. His father is glad to oblige. 

It could always be worse.

-=:=-

For Danny, it doesn’t. The lack makes it harder.

Is it still wrong, if there is no pain? Is it wrong at all? Is the swelling, choking feeling all through his chest and throat sign enough? He cooperates, inasmuch as he does not fight. He has never fought. The days he gives a cursory attempt to push away his mother’s wandering hands dwindle further all the time. 

His body reacts, after all. There is some part of him that enjoys this. That _craves_ this. 

There is also a part that whispers _no more_ s and _please_ s under his breath. That makes him shake so hard he can’t stand once it’s over at last, every time. 

He is glad, at least, that he is spared pain. His mother is glad to kiss each tear away.

It could always be worse. 

-=:=-

The marks left behind are endless.

His father rages against the nail polish and eyeliner, but he recognizes that Tim’s skill with foundation and concealer is too useful to discard. This is no one’s business but their family’s.

Handprints on hips. Bites to his neck, shoulders. Hair torn from the scalp by his father’s grip. Bruises wrapped around his wrists from the nights his father has no patience for his struggle, or else nights where he can’t scrape up the will to fight against bonds. These are the nights he cries most. 

He doesn’t look in the mirror much, anymore. Showers are taken in the dark. His bruise-ridden skin is _evidence_ , and he can’t stand the sight of it.

He has proof, and he will never, ever use it.

-=:=-

The marks left behind are rare.

Danny’s mother loves his skin. Smooth, the same shade as her own. Flawless and clear, she says. 

She likes him flawless, clear, _untouched,_ but it’s far too late for that. She may as well indulge.

Flawless clarity means a unique sort of thrill in her when she leaves a mark. A small blur of purple and red delicately nipped into the corner of his jaw. Lines trailing across him from the soft drag of nails. These are the nights that leave Danny sleepless.

He stares into the mirror after nights without marks. Surely there must be _some_ other sign. Is there any evidence? How can those gentle hands not leave stains on him? How can the quiet words in his ear not draw blood?

He has no proof, but he knows he would keep silent regardless.

-=:=-

For Tim, sometimes it is over quickly. Sometimes it is not. 

The punishment is made to suit the crime. Talking back too much, cursing, dressing in a way deemed unacceptable — these are fast and leave aches like sunburn. The next day is a sore one, but he’s practiced enough at hiding something so small.

Breaking curfew and poor marks at the end of term earn long, long nights. Every minute after curfew, his father says. Every minute spent slacking off. These require all his acting skills and plenty of concealer. If he keeps a shred of luck and a long night happens during the weekend, he rarely even gets out of bed the next day. His bed is his whipping post, but it is also his sanctuary.

Every time his door creaks open, he can only pray it will be over soon.

-=:=-

For Danny, sometimes it is over quickly. Usually it is not.

He is meant to be savored, and she could do so as long as the world turned. These are rewards, and she knows the reward should fit the situation — it’s the only reason she can stop herself from rewarding him the same way for everything he does. Still, even when the catalyst is small, she can rarely keep from taking her time. 

Rarely is not never, of course. Some nights descend in no more than warm kisses and holding him close, whispering how proud she is of him all the while. If she can’t help it, she might slip one hand between them. Most nights fit that and beyond in their hours. 

Every time his door creaks open, he can only pray it will be light.

-=:=-

The threat is not unusual.

No need to be sparing. His father is confident that it will spark the same amount of desperate, pleading fear the first time as it does the thousandth. He makes sure that Tim never knows when it will come next — and if, this time, he will follow through.

_You’ve started liking this, haven’t you? Do you need a whipping boy? If I use Danny to punish you, will that finally be enough?_

No matter how defiant Tim is before this, the mere idea that this punishment may fall on Danny, that he could be forced to take this in Tim’s stead, is enough to nauseate. 

He will carry the weight of their father’s anger alone.

-=:=-

The threat is rare.

Until Danny realizes that he likes this, his mother must stay persistent. She needs him to know that it makes him _special._ He is unique. Her favorite, _her_ boy. He doesn’t know to appreciate it yet.

_Tim has been behaving so well, lately. I may visit him tomorrow night. What do you think?_

The scattered few times she uses it, he always, always asks her to not bother his brother, and to come to his own room instead. The smile she gives him at that starts his shaking before she can even brush her fingertips over his skin.

He will carry the weight of their mother’s love alone.

-=:=-

The first time is ingrained into his memory.

Pain like none other at the age of eleven. Tim’s crime: poor marks. _If you don’t want to study,_ his father said, _you’ll still put that time to use._

A smothering blend of hurt and fear and disorientation. He barely understood well enough to know it was wrong, and even so, doubted that enough to render his understanding meaningless. 

He understands better now, and doubts more.

-=:=-

The first time is lost in fog. 

There must have been nights where he didn’t lie awake and listen for the creak of his door, uncertain and afraid, but Danny can’t remember a _before_ in the slightest. Devoured by the black holes of his memory, or else, so long ago that he can remember learning this as much as he does learning to walk.

Confusion hallmarks it, and a thick rot feeling in his stomach he can only later identify as shame. That itself confuses him further — does it mean that this is wrong, or that _he_ is wrong? 

He grows, and learns the words others might use for what happens to him at night, and his confusion does not abate.

-=:=-

His mother is no comfort.

Her touch is rare, and cold. She favors Danny, there’s no question of it. Tim usually succeeds in crushing his jealousy down. 

Sometimes he tells her about good marks or mentions his upcoming track meets. She gives cursory praise, and occasionally comes to cheer with the other crowd of parents. Danny always watches when Tim goes to her with an exam in hand and a hope that he hasn’t quite killed. Tim can never read his face. It’s not his own jealousy, or worry that Tim might take his place as favorite. Danny isn’t that sort of kid. He just _watches._

It doesn’t matter. Her praise is lukewarm, never enough to soothe the burning inside him. 

The one that cheers the loudest and celebrates the most is always Danny, and that will have to be enough.

-=:=-

His father is no security.

Danny sticks close sometimes, in the hopes that the distance between his parents is enough to stand firm against the magnetism that always draws his mother near. It is, most days, but only as a short-term relief.

She never deals punishments. His father does. If he acts out, if he joins Tim on that road built on grit-teeth stubbornness, it's his father that responds.

Tim is somehow always in the room when Danny’s misbehavior is exposed and the verdict is made. When their father seems especially angry, Tim will often dart in to insist that no, whatever happened is _his_ fault, not Danny’s. 

Danny is rarely desperate enough to find the change in what hands touch him worth the lengths he must go to conceal or justify a black eye, but he knows _rarely_ and _never_ are not synonyms. 

The one with the safest touch and most comforting presence is always Tim, and that will have to be enough.

-=:=-

He worries, sometimes, that he is not as alone as he hopes.

Every so often, Tim catches a mark or two on Danny’s neck, so small and light he can’t be sure it’s there at all. 

There are never any on Danny’s wrists. Tim wishes that was enough to soothe his worry away.

-=:=-

He prays, sometimes, that he is as alone as he feels.

Though Tim’s attempts to hide it nearly work, Danny knows Tim’s hands shake sometimes, minute enough that Danny is never certain.

He doesn’t tremble when she touches him. Danny wishes that was enough to answer his prayers.

-=:=-

The last time, he is seventeen, and he burns.

Tim is leaving. He’s moving out, living on his own. Every second he spends here makes him want to drive his car into the Thames, or else drink until he has reason for the burn deep inside him beyond phantom pain. Living alone means either no longer wanting those or having no one who can stop him from them. Tim will take either if it means getting out of this fucking house.

His father is furious. Part of Tim wonders if he would feel the same way if he wasn’t losing a bedmate as much as he is a son, and cynicism is all that keeps his nausea down. 

The last time is almost as brutal as the first. Tim is strong now, spending time at the gym and taking boxing lessons to try and dissuade this exact thing. For a while, it even worked. Now, as he wakes to the feeling of cords being knotted around his wrists and adrenaline building in his throat, he can only hate himself for letting his guard down.

Tim can’t tell what Danny thinks about him moving out. When fear flickers in Danny’s eyes so fast that he isn’t certain he saw it at all, he nearly gets the courage to ask.

-=:=-

There has been no _last,_ yet.

Danny prefers not to go home when he can avoid it. He leaves for uni, but comes back on breaks when he and his friends have planned no holidays. Part of him scrambles to fill those breaks with _anything,_ but then his mother calls with that stirring of quiet sadness in her voice over how long he’s been away, and guilt tugs him back to the same bedroom and bed and dread.

He wants to keep conversations about school short with nothing worth congratulating, but his mother wants to hear how her boy has been. She’s skilled at tugging each little piece out until she holds a collection of things that all deserve their own rotten praise.

Graduating uni helps. No school, no stream of potential accolades. He switches jobs when it suits him and never stays anywhere long enough to earn true merits. His hobbies change on whims before he gets comfortable — gets _successful._ Little to reward in a life going nowhere.

It shifts, then, to root into how much she _misses_ him. Abating that means visiting more, and visiting more means it will only happen more, unless it doesn’t. Unless being around will satisfy her need to slip into his bed longer. Unless.

He tries to ask Tim to visit with him once in hopes that another person there may dissuade her, but Tim’s answer is only long, harsh laughter. Danny never asks again. 

-=:=-

They won’t ever know how much they’ve each repressed. Out of it all, there is a single night of complete overlap. 

Their father knows that after a year of use, his trump card will only continue to hold firm if Tim understands that it is no bluff. He merely needs to wait for a night when their mother isn’t home.

_I warned you,_ he says as he makes the final knot on Tim’s gag. _I told you I’m prepared to take drastic measures, and you kept pushing anyway. You forced my hand._

Alone, Tim can do nothing but strain his bound arms and legs in an effort to free himself. An exercise in futility. 

The creak of a door in the hall. No mistaking that it’s Danny’s bedroom. Tim wishes the house would catch fire and burn to the ground with all of them inside. 

What starts as bumps barely caught through the walls grows into shouting — _get off me_ and _stop_ and _please_ and _no._ A handful are cries of Tim’s name. Desperate, almost hysterical. Tim can’t breathe around the tears locking his throat into a swollen hell. 

It crescendos further. Danny is almost screaming now. Worse is when his voice gives out to the point where Tim can only catch hoarse, rasping wails, and _still_ their father doesn’t relent.

Danny is younger than Tim’s first night with his father by two years. Tim is certain being slowly pulled apart would hurt less than this.

For Danny's part, he is certain he has never hurt this much. He doesn’t know what he did wrong. He doesn’t know what words are coming out of his mouth. All he knows is that his father is here and he hurts.

Every minute spent slacking off, was how their father punished. Every minute after curfew. 

The length of this night might very well depend on every minute of Tim’s pointless, spiteful defiance. He is, after all, a rebellious son, and there is no shortage of minutes for his father to spend on this torture.

When TimDanny sees his fathermother framed in the doorway the next night, he weeps with relief, and time buries the night before in the depths of memory.

-=:=-

They survive. They grow. From some things, they move on. From most, they do not. 

They survive. They _survive._

-=:=-

It’s Danny who asks.

No telling why the conversation turned to their childhood, not when they both hate bringing it up. Maybe because, when it’s them alone, there is no one who will fuss and pity. 

Whiskey loosens their tongues, in the end. 

“Did you ever…” He takes another drink. “Did you ever have— _company?”_ His voice grows more hoarse with each word. “At night.”

Tim can only just bring himself to look at Danny with all the dread weighing heavy on his neck. He thought he did what he had to. He thought Danny, at least, was spared.

“You mean…?” He can’t force himself to say anything past that. Words make it real. 

Danny isn’t looking at him anymore. He stares into his cup as he nods. Making himself do so hurts like nothing else.

Breath abandons Tim, but he finds it in himself to ensure Danny knows he’s not, never alone.

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

Danny’s head snaps up, eyes round. He says nothing, but his heart lodges in his throat. Something like relief collects next to it, and he hates himself. His horror that Tim went through the same should outweigh the gratitude that he has some proof he didn’t make all his past hurts up. 

“Some kind of fucked up punishment, right?”

Danny slowly shakes his head. “I think it was meant to be a— a _reward.”_

“A reward?” The word tastes bitter. “Never thought dad had that in—“

“Dad?” Ice hangs in Danny’s lungs. 

“What?” Fire washes up Tim’s throat. 

“It wasn’t dad. _Mum.”_

“Mum.” Tim’s heart shudders to a stop in his chest. It isn’t like she was some paragon of nurturing, but he always thought of her as safe. Gone now.

Danny says nothing, but he thinks the same in reverse. Dad. _Dad._ He always saw his father’s distance as a marked _good_ when he compared it to his mother’s love. Stupid. 

Tim drains his cup. “I’m gonna kill her.”

Danny knows enough basic psychology to know his immediate instinct to defend her isn’t him. Trauma talks loud. “Not if I kill dad first.” The sound Tim makes is almost a laugh. 

“Do you think—” Another almost-laugh. “Do you think they had any idea what the other was doing?”

Danny shakes his head with an almost-smile. Kings of almost-cheer, the Stokers. “I can’t decide if them knowing or _not_ knowing is worse.”

“Just— passing each other in the hall and making some bullshit excuse for where they’re going.” Tim fixes two fresh drinks — Danny’s may not be finished yet, but it’s certainly not long for this world. “One of ‘em’s all, _oh, just off for a midnight snack,_ and the other just thinks, like, _shit, I was gonna say that,_ or something.”

Danny actually laughs, now, laughs so hard he cries. He isn’t alone in his tears for long. It takes until they’re both well into their second cups before either speak again.

“That’s why you moved out. And don’t visit.”

“Plenty of other reasons, but mostly that.” Tim has never been able to understand Danny’s perspective on their childhood home, and it makes even less sense now. “You stayed at home.”

“Yeah.”

“Why? I mean, if— If mum was _hurting_ you—” The words cut themselves off without need for interruption. 

A long drink as Danny tries to find an answer for the exact question he’s asked himself a thousand times over. _Why?_

“She’s still our mum. Says she misses me when I’m gone, and I don’t— I know it’s messed up, I _know,_ but… I don’t know. Just feel like I have to, I guess.”

Tim isn’t sure how to feel about the non-answer, but there are more pressing matters. “God, you… You still visit her. Does she _still—?”_

_“Don’t.”_

It isn’t a no. Tim knows that. Danny knows that too. It’s too late, now. Anything he tacks on will sound false.

Tim has been angry before. It’s an old friend, one he’s never been able to shake. He knows it in fire that he can’t quite keep a lid on. Sharp words that snap out like sparks, actions he _knows_ are rash and can’t stop himself from anyway.

This is not that. This is a slow simmering hatred like nothing he’s ever felt before. He thinks he might hate her more than he does his father. 

“Next time you’re in town, even if you have to _visit_ home, you stay with me.”

Danny knows he’s not meant to argue. He argues anyway. 

“You think I don’t try and find other places to stay? She just… You know what she’s like.” 

As much as he wishes otherwise, Tim does. Their mother turns guilt-trips into a competitive sport. That on top of the way this sort of trauma fucks with a person’s — a _kid’s_ — head would seal the deal with ease.

“I’m coming with you from now on, then. You’re not staying there alone.” 

Not happening. “Dad didn’t go anywhere. He’s still at home, and if you come with me—”

“If he thinks things’ll go anywhere _near_ how they used to,” Tim scoffs. “He’s in for a broken nose.”

Switch tracks. “Neither of us ever heard anything weird from each others’ bedrooms. Chances are you won’t even know if something _does_ happen.”

“Then I’ll sleep on your goddamn bedroom floor!” 

_“Why?”_ Danny can’t rock the boat. Going along makes things easier. No fuss. 

“Because I’m not going to just fucking sit back and let our mum _rape_ you every time you’re home for the holidays!” 

They both go very, very still. Neither of them have spoken that word tonight, not until now. Hearing it, saying it — it feels like it changes things. Stupid, really. Using or not using the term doesn’t affect what it describes.

Still, an ugly word. One meant for cop dramas and perfect survivor narratives. The beautifully broken sort; the ones whose healing is so picturesque they can justify the use of such a foul four letters. The public can only stomach it with pretty set dressings and a few well-placed tears.

Neither Tim nor Danny are those survivors. 

Tim, too angry. Lashing out burns others’ sympathies into reproach. How dare he fight tooth and nail? How hypocritical is he to struggle like this and still never go to the authorities? How can they want to help him when he has the audacity to spit on their well-intentioned pity?

Danny, too complicit. Stillness and quiet hobble sympathies before they can truly form. How dare he not fight back? How can he claim to not want any of it when, a small handful of times, he returned kisses? How can they want to help him when he so clearly accepts everything done to him?

No, they are not the beautifully broken. They carry scars in their throats and brands under their ribs, all rooted into the deepest parts of them. Decay and rot and shame in an endless font.

Still, a gangrenous limb can be removed. The death of skin and muscle and bone cannot be magically undone, but it can be halted in its tracks. Loss is only that: loss. Not death. Not failure. Not something that breaks so fundamentally the shattered bits it leaves behind can never recover.

Both of them have lost things they will never, ever get back. There are more things to come, things they won’t lose so long as they reach for them. 

Perhaps it’s childish when Danny and Tim elect to sleep in the same bed that night with barely a word of discussion needed to decide as much. Having another body next to them that they _chose_ and _trust_ warms in a way that neither ever learned before — yes, perhaps it’s childish, but there are so many of time’s lessons never learned that they have to make up for. They must begin new.

The things to come feel enormous. They still need to decide what to do about Danny’s visits home. They need to talk more about what they remember; much, much more. They need to look for some goddamn therapists. They need to confront the decades of trauma left to unpack.

Unpacking will wait for one more night. For now, company soothes their hurts. There is no creaking door, and Danny and Tim can sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and please stay safe.
> 
> Edit: The last line somehow got cut off - fixed now.


End file.
